Authors: Quintin Jardine
`See what I mean about the course, Bob?' he said as he and Skinner walked, side by side towards Norton Wales's drive, around 160 yards from the tee. 'It doesn't have sharp enough teeth for a championship venue. The hill isn't really in play, and that bunker isn't a hazard at all for a pro, or for you, for that matter. There's nothing to stop me using all my length off the tee, and with a short iron for my second shot, it's a birdie there for the taking.'
`Shall I tell Hector to do something about it?' asked Susan Kinture, earnestly. Atkinson looked over his shoulder in surprise.
‘I’m sorry, Lady Kinture. That was very rude of me. You and the Marquis are my hosts this week, and here I am criticising your course.' He paused as Norton Wales duffed his second shot, impossibly, into the bunker. 'Don't take it to heart, though. Witches' Hill is in the finest condition I've ever seen in a brand-new course, and your visitors will enjoy it as it stands. It's quite natural for adjustments to be made to a new venue as it matures.'
Susan Kinture's eyes shone like those of a schoolgirl. `Could you suggest any? If you could, Darren, it would be wonderful.'
Atkinson smiled at her, as Hideo Murano hit his second shot, a conservative three-wood, which he tugged into light rough, eighty yards short and left of the green. 'I probably could make one or two suggestions, but I'm not sure that the Marquis would welcome them. It's his course, and he has his own architect. He and O'Malley may well have long-term development plans.' He took her hand for a second, as Norton Wales picked up, after his third unsuccessful attempt to extricate himself from the sand-trap. 'Tell you what, I'll give it some thought on the way round, and perhaps you and I could have a chat about it over a nightcap tonight, after the dinner.'
`That would be great!'
`Right, it's a date. Now I must concentrate on my game. I could have a battle on my hands with these two guys.' They had reached Skinner's ball. 'Right Bob. Show us your stuff.' The kidney-shaped green, two hundred yards away, was guarded front left by a bunker, and a second lay to its rear on the right. The big policeman looked at the lie of his ball, thought for a moment, then took a three-iron from his bag. `Slow,' he said, aloud and fired in a high shot which bounced on the front edge of the green, bit hard, and trickled to a stop just short of the right-hand bunker.
`Bugger,' said Atkinson, forgetful of Lady Kinture's presence. 'That's you there for nett one, counting your shot.' Bravo was waiting by his ball when they reached it, sixty yards beyond Skinner's drive. Èight-iron, please, Bray.' He approached the shot as carefully and as methodically as he had prepared his tee-shot, seeming to ease, rather than force, the ball towards the green. It pitched six feet past the hole, but spun back sharply to stop inches away.
The gallery, now numbered in thousands, roared its applause behind the rope barrier.
Hideo Murano took two shots to free himself from the rough, then hit his fifth into the bunker behind the green. He signalled that his caddy should retrieve his ball, and stood beside Norton Wales on the edge of the green as Skinner surveyed a putt which was all of thirty feet long. 'What d'you think, caddy?' he asked Susan Kinture.
Obviously pleased to be asked, she stood beside him and looked down the line. 'It looks as if it'll come in from the right, about two inches. But it's slightly downhill, so be careful not to hit it too far past.' He nodded and lined up the putt. Remembering Darren Atkinson's advice, he kept the Zebra's head clear of the grass and stroked the ball delicately. For a moment, he thought that it would fall into the hole, but at the last moment it ran out of pace and stopped on the lip. Unable to suppress a smile, he tapped in for a four, nett three, leaving Atkinson to confirm the half with his tiny putt.
`Well played, partner,' said Hideo Murano, with his first grin of the day, as they walked towards the second tee.
Ènjoy it,' said Skinner. 'I think that's as good as it's going to get.'
It was a measure of Atkinson's class that he did not lose a single hole on the way round, even though Skinner managed to use five of his ten shots to secure nett birdies. His golf was awesome, and the match ended on the sixteenth green when he rolled in his eighth birdie putt to put his team three up on Skinner and Murano. Norton Wales looked crestfallen as the four shook hands. 'Worse than a bad night at Batley, that was,' he muttered.
`Don't worry,' said his captain. 'Suppose you pick up just two or three birdies with your shots in the competition proper, you'll have done your bit for the team. No one's expecting you to break par. This might not be the toughest course for us pros, but it's a bloody good test for high handicappers.'
They played on to complete the round. With the clubhouse in sight, and the gallery swelled still further, Skinner and Atkinson chatted as they walked together down the eighteenth fairway, alongside the Truth Loch with its raucous geese and its newly reinstalled ducking stool.
`What made you decide to set up your company, Darren?' the policeman asked.
The golfer shrugged his shoulders. 'I felt that a good management company dedicated to golfers was one thing that the European Tour lacked. Then when I thought about it, I realised that Rick and I had in effect, a good management company devoted entirely to my interests.
So we decided to expand its operations, and to put it at the service of others.'
`Do you plan to ease yourself out of playing one day, and into the company?'
Atkinson shook his head vigorously. 'Rick runs the company. That's what he's good at. I'm good at golf. At the moment, I'm the best golfer in the world. Some say I'm the best there's ever been. I can't agree with them, not yet. But I think I can be and that's what drives me on.
Every time I tee up, I want to win. Sometimes I expect to win, and when I'm in that sort of form I usually do. If you're a betting, man, put some dough on me to lift the Million this week. I'm a racing certainty. Then back me to take at least two more majors next year. I've got thirteen in the bag so far. My dream is twenty'
They stopped by Skinner's drive. He asked Susan Kinture for a three-iron and hit a low shot to the fringe of the green. As Wales and Murano played what seemed like a separate game along the edge of the left-hand rough, Skinner, Atkinson and their caddies strolled on towards the champion's ball, its position the result of a long, beautifully flighted shot which had made the Truth Loch seem pointless as a hazard. 'You said something yesterday about having your own course. When are you going to fit that in? In your lunch-break?'
Atkinson laughed. Ì'm always looking for development opportunities. One day I'll find the right one. There must be plenty of people out there who would love to have the World Number One involved in their project.'
As the gallery filled the surrounding stands, he selected a five-iron and smacked a beautiful shot into the heart of the green, fifteen feet left of the flag. Again the crowd cheered, but Atkinson was less impressed by his work. He slammed the club back into the bag in annoyance. 'Poor,' he said to Skinner. `From this range I should finish no worse than ten feet away.'
The policeman laughed. 'Back here in the world of the mortals, I'll settle for two putts for a par!'
As they approached the green, he held back, leaving Darren Atkinson to walk alone up the slope, to receive the acclaim of his public. The champion marked his ball then signalled the crowd into silence as Murano, then Wales finished their rounds.
Susan Kinture handed Skinner his putter, drawing murmurs from the crowd as she helped him line up his forty-foot putt. Out on the course, the gallery had been more distant, but now in the amphitheatre of the eighteenth, he fought to control the churning of his stomach. Thinking of nothing but the ball, he managed a smooth stroke and ran his approach a mere foot past the hole. Smiling with relief, he walked up, amid applause, and topped in for his par. His blonde caddy, who was holding the flag, stepped up to give him a brief hug as he stood up after picking his ball out of the hole. 'Super golf,' she whispered. 'Michael would have been so pleased to see it.'
The line of Atkinson's birdie putt ran across a sharp slope, and down into a small flat area where the hole was cut. Watching him judge the borrow, Skinner realised that it was probably the most difficult shot of the afternoon, yet when the ball swung sharply down the slope and rolled unwaveringly into the hole he was not surprised in the slightest degree.
He applauded with the rest, as he walked up the green to shake the champion's hand.
'Wonderful round, Darren. I think I'll go and put those bets on now.'
Atkinson smiled. 'Let's just hope I haven't used up my ration of birdies before the tournament begins!' With Susan Kinture between them, they walked across the green, towards the clubhouse entrance, where Arthur Highfield stood waiting, with Andres Cortes, Ewan Urquhart, and a rugged man Skinner recognised as Sandro Gregory, the Australian.
`Well,' said Gregory, with more than a trace of irony. 'How was it? Have the rest of us got a chance at the money?'
Atkinson looked at him evenly. 'Sure,' he said. 'All you have to do is go round in fewer shots than me.'
`What did you shoot, Darren?' asked Urquhart.
Òh, just one or two birdies,' he replied vaguely.
`Yes,' said Skinner, quietly. 'Nine, to be exact. That last putt was for a sixty-three.
Andres Cortes shook his head and muttered something obscene in Spanish.
`That's physically impossible, Andres!' said Arthur Highfield. He rubbed his hands together.
'Gentlemen, you will remember this evening's dinner.' The four golfers nodded. Ìt was really you I wanted to see, Mr Skinner. The PGA is hosting a pre-tournament dinner in the clubhouse dining room. Seven-thirty for eight p.m., lounge suits. I should have mentioned it before. You will be able to come, won't you?'
Ì'd be delighted. I'd better head home right now though, to break the news to my wife ...
gently.'
`Bring Sarah,' said Susan Kinture at once, 'otherwise I'll be the only lady present.'
`She'd love to come, but we have a four-month-old social handicap, with an established routine. And we'd never find a baby-sitter at this notice.'
Susan Kinture folded her arms across her chest. 'No excuses, officer. We have a wonderful girl on our staff at Bracklands. She'll sit for you. Off you go home and help Sarah to get herself prepared. Otherwise I'll tell her she was invited, but you said "no" on her behalf.'
Bob smiled. 'I give up. But you phone Sarah anyway, and tell her all about your wonder girl.
I'll head off home, meantime.'
`Time for a quick team shandy first,' Atkinson interposed, and led his playing companions to the changing room. Hideo Murano and Norton Wales, each sweating heavily from their exertions, decided to shower, but Atkinson and Skinner simply washed and changed into blazers, slacks and shirts.
In the bar, they found a window table, to which Williamson, the elderly steward, brought their drinks.
That was a lifetime of golfing experience in one afternoon, Darren,' said Skinner, sipping his Coke. 'I'll be the club bore for months. But tell me, isn't it disconcerting for you to be playing with the likes of us?'
Atkinson smiled. 'When I play, Bob, I don't even notice you're there. I don't see anything but the ball or the course. I don't hear the crowd, not even in the States.'
`That's dedication for you. Is your brother like you?' `Rick? Yes, I suppose he is, in his own way.'
Ìs he around this week?'
`No, he doesn't come to all the tournaments. We have field people who look after our clients'
interests, just like SSC and Greenfields.'
Skinner nodded, thoughtfully, and took another sip of his drink. 'Speaking of them, did you see Richard Andrews at the tournament last week, by any chance?'
`Mr Nice? Oh yes. You always know when he's about, he's such a loud-mouthed bugger.'
`Was he there every day?'
Atkinson considered the question for a moment. 'Come to think of it, he was there on Thursday, Friday and Saturday, with his gopher, a bloke called Hollywood, or something . . .
Holliman, that's his name. But on Sunday, the gopher was around on his own. I didn't see Mr Nice at all.'
The golfer looked at the policeman, curiously. 'How come you're so interested in him anyway? You don't think . .
Skinner shook his head. 'Of course not. Tell you what; try to forget I asked about him, OK?
But if you see him around this week, give me a whisper. Remember that. Not a shout. A very discreet whisper.'
Thirty
‘Honey, you are wonderful! Imagine swinging an invite to the tournament dinner for me too!
And finding us a baby-sitter, into the bargain! Ooh, come here!'
She pulled him to her, ran her fingers through his hair and kissed him; a long squashy kiss of sheer delight.
Bob frowned, to keep his confusion from her. `So Susan Kinture called you,' he said, in what he hoped was a knowing ' tone.
Sarah squeezed him again. 'Yup. She told me about Highfield inviting you to the dinner, and you saying that given the short notice you'd only come if you could bring your wife, and then about you asking her if she could fix us up with a short-notice baby-sitter.'
He smiled, relaxing. 'She's quite a woman, that Susan. You're happy about the sitter?'
Òh yes, Susan told me all about her. She's working as a maid at Bracklands during the summer, living in. With all the house guests at the dinner tonight, she's surplus to requirements. I said you'd pay her thirty pounds.'
His jaw dropped. 'That's a bloody good hourly rate. Did you say we'd lay on a taxi too?'
Òf course I did. But she's got her own car.'
`Thank Christ for that!' he whispered, through clenched teeth. Then aloud, 'OK, it's six o'clock now, we'd better get cracking.'
Together they bathed the rumbustious Jazz, sticking to their vow that bathtime should be a joint exercise whenever possible. The baby seemed to fill more of the plastic basin with every day. 'It's soon going to be easier to get in the bath ourselves and take him with us,' said Bob.